StevenVinson.com

I discovered something about myself. I’m not sure whether to be proud or ashamed.
My work ID badge fell into the toilet while I was getting situated in the stall. It’s one of those automatic deals that flushes when you stand up.
I quick did an assessment. Hadn’t done any big potty (false alarm – you’ve been there I’m sure). Most of the business end of the water had made it down already. I was well hydrated that day. Getting a replacement would not be easy or painless and would involve me being late for the kickball game (it was after 5 and a valid ID badge is a prerequisite to conveniently exit the building).
My brain processed all of that information and made the decision to go for it in less than 2 seconds. And I aggressively plunged my hand in and grabbed that ID badge. Just as it was about to go down the throat of the commode.
I washed my hands for a long time and rinsed the badge. There’s plenty of anti microbial goo around the place. And I saved the badge and my kickball punctuality.
Judge me if you will. But I learned something about myself – I have a fast brain, quick reflexes, and I don’t mind plunging my fist into a recently soiled john.

The following is a letter to Elizabeth.  Spoiler alert: it is unfiltered and unedited.  I get a little vulnerable.  You have been warned.  Oh, and there is nothing wrong.  Everything is perfect.  This is what being a writer is all about…

Dear Elizabeth,

You may read this soon, but I feel like you will not fully grasp it until much later.

Once when I was little, I wished I could turn back time.  It was when I was about eight years old.  I and my brother had forgotten to feed the dog.  We were in deep, deep trouble (I thought at the time).  We were told that when Choo Choo finally died, we were not to show any grief because we showed with our neglect that night that we did not care much for him.  I was heart-broken and grief stricken.  I prayed to God that he would turn back the clock and allow me another chance to make things right.  A pretty heavy burden for an eight year old.

Tonight you wished out loud that you could turn back time.  To have another chance to make things right.  I remembered and felt the sorrow from that night many years ago.  Believe me when I tell you that I know that feeling.

As you know, it has been hard lately to get Simone to stay in bed.  She claims to be scared, or hungry, or not tired, or whatever she thinks will get us to let her stay up.  None of it works.  We make her go back to bed.  And we threaten to turn off her light and shut her door (neither of which she likes).  We make good on those threats.  We put her in time out.  We explain that she will be tired, tell her it is unacceptable, we do not tolerate the behavior, and we do all of the other things that the well-meaning parents of others might suggest.  And by “suggest”, I mean “tell us what we are doing wrong or not doing right”.  They are certain we are doing something wrong or not doing something that must be the right thing since their children never behaved this way.  We even do all the things you suggest, Elizabeth.  Because sometimes, even grown-ups run out of ideas.

So tonight, when I had already tried everything else, I suggested to Simone that maybe she would not be scared if she could have Poppy up there with her.  She agreed.  Relief and elation.  So I watched her invite Poppy up the stairs with her and I went back to entertain our friends who were visiting from afar.

Next I heard the screaming.  First I heard Simone. Then as I came closer I heard you.  You were shooing Poppy back down the stairs and Simone was screaming bloody murder.  By the time I made it to the top of the stairs, Poppy was gone.  Simone was inconsolable. And you didn’t know what you had done wrong.  I made you go to bed and I made sure you knew that, with Poppy gone, Simone was going to be crying for quite some time now.

I suppose it was about 20 or 30 minutes of threats, making good on threats, reasoning, pleading, and time outs.  I asked what it was going to take to get you guys to go to bed.  And you said you just wanted to go to sleep so it could all be over.  Or, you said, you wanted to go back in time and start this evening over. So it could all be better.  Or, you and Simone agreed, you wanted Mommy.

As I write you this letter, you are asleep.  When you wake up, I’m sure all will be right with the world once again.  I will assure you that the craziness was not your fault.  Simone will be tired because she is just now falling asleep on the sofa across from me.  And as for our guests from afar… At least they were able to keep each other company.  And at least they had fun watching me run up and down the stairs.

I guess what I want you to know and why I’m writing you this letter is this.  There is no need to turn back time.  There is only now and here.  We can only choose what to do with the now and here that we have.  It is okay to mourn and to grieve for what might have been or what other choices we might have made.  This mourning and this grief inform the present and guide our future.  But in the end there is only here and only now. So, don’t let it get you down.  Things always seem better in the morning.

I love you with all of my heart.

Love,

Dada

Again. Not sure what to write about tonight. I know. Boring. But I found myself sifting through my notes. Again. And dismissing topic after topic. Because I didn’t want to take a long time.
Stop Managing and Start Leading. I’ve got an idea for a list. “A manager controls. A leader inspires.”; “A manager sees process as the answer. A leader sees behavior as the answer.” And so on.
Or how about What Matters? I matter. You matter. But before you go about “helping” someone, you ought to figure out what matters to “them”. Not to “you”.
Both of those would be good topics. For another time. When I’m not fighting myself so vigorously. To relax.

Elizabeth likes to joke around. Well you knew that.  One of her favorites is to say, “Dada. You should invite Nana over so you guys can talk about Congress.”  Of course she is referring to the commonly held political conversations we have at family gatherings.  Nana and I tend to have a lot to say during those conversations.  We agree more often than not, but that’s beside the point.

When I first joined this family (“this” meaning my in-laws), I was not used to the routine. Bill Clinton was, to my delight, our President.  I couldn’t have been prouder to know that we had finally replaced the warmonger Bush.  Nana could not, nor could anyone else around the dinner table, disagree more.  The discussions were heated.  It was confusing for me how we could get so crazy intense over dinner and be gracious and charming by dessert.

That’s just how it had always been, explained my new bride.  I should have been there for the Nixon years and Watergate, she said.  There would be knock down drag out fights over salad and red wine.   Lovely discussion about art or music over ice cream and tea.

It took me quite some time to figure it out and to embrace it.  See, the way I grew up was with everyone always agreeing or quickly shifting off the topic.  Keep it light and keep it jovial and congenial.  Disagreement and any discussion at any temperature above just below ambient was considered scandalous.

I’ve taken on my in-laws’ approach in my life.  I’ve recently discovered the phrase “constructive confrontation.”  I think that might be what it is.  See, if you put all of your dirty laundry out on the table and poke it and stir it up and let everybody smell it and scrunch up their face at it, then it will not sit there under wraps. Festering and getting all wrinkled and ruined.  Bright sunshine is the best antiseptic.

The trick is to realize that by the time dessert comes, we can all go back to being nice and pleasant. And we can realize that the debate we just had was constructive.  We likely learned something from one another.  Even if we did not come any closer to agreeing.  That’s how life works.  We get open and we get real and naked and raw with each other. So we can understand each other better. And have a richer, more meaningful relationship.

I mean, how great is a creamy cold bowl of ice cream after a super spicy savory meal?

Driving past houses that are not kept up.

Homes that are not maintained. Inside is worse than outside.

This one has a hungry but happy family in it.

There was a shooting outside that one.  Bullets barged in.

Three holes in two walls.

That next one has blankets for curtains.

In the front door

Through the barren living room into the closed-in back porch

And down the stairs

In the built-on, makeshift room lies a man who is living his last few days.  Finally living. While dying.

Coming up next, a house where a man was born, grew up, married, raised children, welcomed grandchildren, nursed his dying wife, morned, and now sits.

Watching Storage Wars.

Waiting for his grand children to visit.

Every house has a story.  Every home has secrets.

Even at 65 mph, I can see inside those homes and imagine that I know those lives.

Sure beats local radio.

I get my hair cut at Snapdragon Salon.  They are the best.  My stylist is the best of the best.  Oh sure my hair looks fantastic, but the real secret is the conversation.  Calling it a conversation is sort of like calling the Superbowl a sporting contest.  Yes, they do play a competitive sport during that day, but even the words, “big game” don’t come close to describing the spectacle, the anticipation, the high stakes.  High stakes conversation. That’s what I’m talking about.

Last time I was in Snapdragon, Robyn and I were going through our usual hilarious routine.   We were entertaining the other stylists and clients as usual.  Robyn pointed out to another stylist that the client who had just left, whom she engaged in conversation by asking him details about his like (what do you do? married? kids?), had been in before – this was his second visit.  I didn’t get the relevance of this detail but the other stylist was embarrassed at this apparent misstep.  Turns out, at Snapdragon they take seriously remembering facts about their clients’ lives.  They want the client to feel as though they belong.  That they are welcome.  The entire week of my appointment, I imagine, Snapdragon is abuzz with excitement.

“Steve’s appointment is this Friday.”

“Oh my gosh.  I can’t wait.”

“What should I wear?”

“He is alway so funny. And that family of his is so adorable.”

“I wonder if we’ll talk about those conjoined twins or bedazzling or vagazzling?”

See, I have been going to Snapdragon for about 7 or 8 years.  Robyn is a family friend. We’ve been to a concert together (we rocked our faces off) and probably will again (our faces grew back).  But it hasn’t always been that way.  Back in the day, when Snapdragon was still behind Applebee’s in Broadripple, before Robyn gave Simone her first haircut, or Elizabeth hers, I was hooked.  She seemed to remember stuff about our family.  Even though she must have hundreds of clients.  Last Friday I learned how it works.

Snapdragon stylists (maybe all stylists for all I know) make notes.  They care so much about making their clients feel like they are welcome and wanted that they make notes.  When she told me that, it did not even occur to me that making notes was cheating, or impersonal, or inauthentic.  To me, the fact that they care enough to make notes means that they know that no human could possibly remember stuff about so many different people who they see about once a month.  So they make notes.

Being me, I had to ask.  What was in her note about me?  Funny, I imagined.  Likes riding his bike.  Young daughter. Project Manager at Clarion Health Partners.  Warm, charming, and engaging.  Those are the notes I figured she had made on me.  Cuz that’s me.  It’s what I figure everyone wants to remember about me.

Know what was in my notes that Robyn made for me?

Constance's Husband

Well I’m that, too, I guess. And proud of it.

Alright. I know you don’t come here to read me complain. But I’m tired tonight. I want to go to bed. But I’m in the home stretch and I do not want to get behind at this point.
Anyway, how about a little journaling. If I were a 10 year old girl, I would have written “diary” instead of “journal”.
Anyway anyway, I was reflecting on what an inspiring group of individuals with whom I’ve surrounded myself. I am comfortable opening up to my friends and they are comfortable opening up to me. We share our wins, our insecurities, our plans, and our fears. We discuss how to inspire others to dream big and commit to action. We tell each other to write and we tell each other jokes. We laugh, we cry, we connect and we create.
So as a guy on a podcast said, “It ain’t all a drag.” Today was a good day.

I don’t know what to write about tonight.  So here is a funny picture of Simone as a Transformer:

It’s funny how those “stick your head through a hole or on top of a big picture” things trick the mind briefly.  When I first saw this picture that Constance took at the Indianapolis Children’s Museum today, I sort of thought she was wearing a robot suit.  For a second.

The brain works super fast.  It’s a good thing, too.  It’s why computers still do not react to real world situations as fast as humans.  The tradeoff for working really fast is that the brain’s accuracy rate is way lower than a computer’s.  I’ve read that the brain works fast by drawing conclusions based on patterns.  Glance at someone who “looks like a man” and your brain decides it’s a man.  A computer would not conclude that it is a man nearly as quickly unless you gave it an algorithm that allowed it to draw a conclusion based on probabilities.

Anyway, I find all of that interesting.  It didn’t take long for me to figure out that Simone wasn’t wearing a robot suit.  But it was only after I processed the information a little further.

I guess this is what Post 61 on Day 61 looks like.  Random and rambling.  But you did get to see a cute picture.  Hey, if you don’t like it, I’ll give you your money back 🙂

60 posts in 60 days. Two thirds there.  30 more posts 30 more days.  Here is a list:

1. I am a little surprised how good my posts have been.  Now, I don’t expect to win any Pullet Surprises, but I also am not all that embarrassed by the quality of the unedited words.
2. I’ve had over 1,150 page views from 500 visitors.
3. On April 23, the site was viewed 145 times, led by Boston questions (38 views) and My commute is less stressful than a mamma duck’s (28 views) and Thank God for the Westboro Baptist Church (21 views).
4. I’ve begun thinking about what happens after Day 90 Post 90.  Posts will be a little less frequent.  But writing will be daily.
5. I am going to write for some local papers – maybe suburban business publications.
6. I love writing and I love the response from readers (keep those comments coming!)
7. Facebook is awesome for helping me get my words to a bunch of people.  After Day 90 Post 90, I can add Twitter, maybe Google+.  And I can research how to spread the word even more.  Gotta love the internets.

Simone (my 5 year old) plays soccer with Allison Lynn‘s and Michael Dahlie‘s son.  I met them a year or so ago at a Butler University event organized by the creative writing savants over there.  Avid fans will remember my writing connection to Butler in the form of the community fiction workshop and my good friend David J. Marsh.  Enough name dropping. On with to tonight’s topic:

There is this mom at soccer who looks familiar.  After several games trying to figure out how I knew her (trying, as in not asking her if we have met – that’s me, the nerd), I decided that she must be someone who has a common look.  Cute, brunette, smart and hip.  In my defense, you probably know someone who looks like that, complete with stylish glasses and an attractive overall demeanor.

Anyway, you know where this is going.  “Hello.  Evan is a cute kid and he really plays hard.  Hey, you look familiar to me.  Are you an author and an instructor at Butler?  I think I met you at the creative writing center,” is what I should have said.  Instead, I waited until we got home and I looked at the list of teammates.  There was the last name Dahlie.  I have a few more practices and a couple of games left to awkwardly or not awkwardly introduce myself and make a connection.

Here’s the thing.  As I was telling my wife all of this, it occurred to me that there are too many times in our lives when we choose the so-called safe path.  What’s worse?  Telling someone they look familiar and having them not be the person you thought they were, leading to – what? – maybe an interesting conversation.  Certainly not debilitating embarrassment or awkwardness.  Think of the other possibility.  That you tell someone they look familiar and it does turn out to be that person.  Instant connection.  And what’s better than connection?  Or, you can just stay silent and have limiting conversations with yourself.

To review, I can think of three likely possibilities:

1.  you say something and the person is not that person – connection made nonetheless, interesting conversation ensues

2.  you say something and the person is that person – instant connection, interesting conversation ensues

3.  you say nothing and the person turns out to be either that person or not that person – no connection, no interesting conversation.  Only self-doubt and regret.

Okay, maybe I’m overstating it.  But really.  Take that step.  Make mistakes.  Go down swinging.  Make something happen.  Err on the side of action!

File this under “how many times must I learn the same lesson?” or “so what? now what?” or “ninety posts in ninety days”